


Trouble In Mind

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Acting AU, Hollywood, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, making out as revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Kent gets himself fired, with a little help from Mobster #3.





	Trouble In Mind

**Author's Note:**

> General warning for homophobic language and slurs.

“That’s not how fags kiss.”

Everyone in the room turns to look at Kent, standing in the back of the room with a clipboard in his hand. Most faces hold confusion, a few look mildly scandalized. The director, whom Kent just cut off in the middle of a tirade about a scene between two (straight) male characters, looks murderous.

“What,” the man spits, “did you just say?”

Two days ago, Kent got into an...altercation, say, with the director, about the prolific use of a particular slur on set. Kent’s about one cough away from being kicked out the door and maybe never getting such a good gig as a production assistant’s assistant again. But fuck it. “That’s not how fags kiss,” he repeats, louder. “Nobody’s going to think your main guy is queer, stop busting a nut over it.”

It’s so quiet in the room that Kent can hear the soft electric buzz of the viewing monitors.

There is a zero percent chance he’s getting this week’s paycheck any time soon.

“This is  _my film_ , you cocksucking little—”

“How they kiss?”

Like the tide shifting, everyone’s attention moves to the only actor in the room. He’s a large Russian dude who plays Mobster #3. His character dies in a shootout scene that’s practically off-screen. English is not his forte and the director has been happily reminding him of this since production began.

Kent sees the spark of rebellion in the other man’s eyes when they meet. Curiosity, and some danger. It’s hot. “Can I borrow you?”

The man comes over when Kent gestures to him. People move away, as though physical distance will keep them clean of whatever shit Kent is about to stir into his own pot. Kent puts the man’s hands on his hips, and there’s no protest, only an interested hum. He glances at the director, whose face couldn’t be pinker or more sour if he’d sucked on a lemon-flavored dick for an hour straight. “This,” Kent says, “is how fags kiss.”

And look, Kent’s teenage years were pretty calm and straight-laced. But the second he turned twenty, it was like a dam broke, and he started trying everything and anything, both solo and with anyone he came across who was up for it. Kent has gone down and bent over, fucked faces and had his fucked, eaten people out and had the favor returned. He’s had a steamy sixty-nine on a rich boyfriend’s bed and several truly disappointing hand jobs in the backs of clubs. He’s gotten off dressed and naked and some states in-between; he’s had it take minutes and he’s been teased for hours. Anything he could think to try in the last five years, he has.

All this is to say, when he gets his mouth on Mobster #3, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

He keeps his hands on the man’s hips, doesn’t grind or hump or do anything suggestive with his body. All he needs is his tongue. He gets Mobster #3’s lips wet, keeps his mouth moving and slowly fucks his tongue inside. His partner doesn’t protest. Rather the opposite; he drops his jaw and lets Kent do whatever the hell he wants. Kent makes it dirty, he makes it obscene, and he makes it good.

Kent thinks he hears a _purr_ of pleasure when he withdraws. Mobster #3 licks his spit-lick mouth and grins at Kent like he’s just seen something deadly and beautiful. Kent has never been so turned on by an expression in his life. He has probably just gotten both of them fired, but he already knows what he wants to do with the last of his paycheck and his newly freed-up afternoon.

That feeling doubles when Mobster #3 says, “That not how fags kiss. That how fags rim.”

From across the room, there’s a sound like a rooster being strangled. It’s the director. “Get off my set!”

Less than twenty minutes later, Kent and Mobster #3 are on the sidewalk outside the studio, watching a red-faced assistant literally slam the door in their faces.

They look at each other.

Kent says, “I think it’s safe to say that neither of us is ever working in this town again.”

Mobster #3 snorts. “Is big town. Hollywood always need stereotype Russian character. Find work again okay, I think.” He turns to Kent and holds out his hand. “I’m Alexei Mashkov.”

Kent accepts the handshake. It’s warm and sturdy. “Kent Parson. Sorry I got us fired.”

The handshake ends but Alexei keeps his hold on Kent’s hand, now rubbing his thumb along the back of it. “I don’t mind. Think it’s best way I ever lose job.”

Kent _really_ likes the little zingers of heat running through him from Alexei’s touch and from the heat in his eyes. “I want to get you on a bed and make you come so hard your eyes roll back. Interested?”

Alexei runs his index finger up the soft underbelly of Kent’s wrist. “You let me blow you after?”

Kent thinks about watching his dick stretch Alexei’s mouth. “Hell yeah.”

“Good. Come,” Alexei says, tugging Kent’s hand. “Is hotel close by.”

“Or we can use my place,” Kent replies. “It’s five blocks from here, so we’ll have to take the train, but my roommate works an office job and won’t be home ‘til six.”

Kent likes the way Alexei’s smile turns wicked. “Okay. Your place.” He steps close and leans down, and when Kent turns his face up, Alexei kisses him, long and hot and lingering. Then he steps back and releases Kent’s hand. “For until have you alone.”

“I like the way you think,” Kent says.

Together, they walk to the train station. It’s the end of a shit morning and the start of what’s guaranteed to be a very enjoyable afternoon.


End file.
